Speedily, cross the street! I scurry

Stealthy as shadow, to my prize,

My treasure, my dear trash. I curry

The hoard for sweets, and look! Some flies!

Eeek! Speed away, it’s time to bail—

 “I think it’s dead,” the human said,

And poked me with its pointed nail.

I kept still, nose to toes, in dread.

It seems it worked. I’m like a master

Pianist, or— beetles!—  gourmet chef:

My art is used, then fast and faster

Forgotten— heaps of mimicked deaths.

You find your life in little things,

The cliché goes; for me, it’s true.

An insect— yum! — or trick played brings

A glee known only to us few.